


attention

by hatebeat



Series: Putting the gears in motion [24]
Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-03
Updated: 2013-10-03
Packaged: 2017-12-28 08:09:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/989737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hatebeat/pseuds/hatebeat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pickles acts out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	attention

Pickles stopped in his tracks when he opened the front door, letting his backpack slip from his fingers to the floor. The porcelain lamp his mom liked so much was in pieces next to the couch, and even though there was no explanation for it, Pickles already felt the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. His mother wasn't going to be happy when she got home, regardless of who was to blame.

Pickles knew exactly who was going to be blamed, though.

Numbness settling into his bones, he reached for his backpack, threw it over his shoulder, and turned back out the door. He walked away from his house, all the way back down his street, and all the way to Memorial Park. It was a Tuesday afternoon, so the park was mostly empty except for the occasional lady jogging, and that was just the way Pickles liked it.

He went all the way to the end of one of the docks, sat down on the edge, and pulled his homework out of his bag, poring over stupid multiplication problems under the crisp afternoon sun. 

It served as enough of a distraction until the sun went down, the temperature dropped, and Pickles didn't have a jacket. So he mustered up his courage and returned home, finding the act of putting one foot in front of the other more of a challenge the closer he got. 

When he put his house key in the front door, he hesitated, but he knew it didn't make a difference. He had to go home at some point, and the longer he waited, the worse it would probably be. So he took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

His parents were sitting there on the couch watching television, just like he expected them to be doing at this hour, and he could smell remnants of dinner. Smelled like roast beef, maybe...? Pickles' stomach growled. 

"It's about time you came home, Matthew," his mother said viciously. "Get over here."

Pickles said nothing, just dropped his backpack on the floor and shuffled over toward the couch, scowling at the floor.

"Do you know how expensive that lamp was? And irreplaceable, it was a gift from my grandmother. What have I told you about playing in the house?"

"I didn't do it," Pickles muttered.

"What was that? Speak up when you talk," his mother nagged him.

"I said it wasn't me!"

"Sethy saw the whole thing, he told me what happened. Lying just makes it worse, Matthew."

"It wasn't me, I swear!" Pickles insisted, but he already knew it was useless. They would never believe him over Seth. Pickles looked to his dad, who was sitting there silently, eyes glued to the television. He didn't care either way, did he? He knew his dad would never help him, wouldn't take his side.

"You're lying," his mother said with disgust. "Why else would you have hidden after school? The longer you wait to admit it, the longer you're going to be grounded, you know."

"Mom!" 

"Get out of here," his father suddenly barked. "I don't want to listen to you two bickering. Just go to your damn room."

Pickles balled his hands up into fists, biting down on the inside of his lip to keep himself from crying. It was just unfair! After everything Seth did, and he still got in trouble because of him...

He turned and stomped away from them, up the stairs, straight to his room. He wanted to kill Seth. He wanted to go into his room and kill him. But he wouldn't, and he didn't. He just curled up on his bed and hugged a pillow to his chest as hard as he could, trying to keep himself from exploding. 

He laid there seething for hours, hungry and ignored and blamed for something stupid he had nothing to do with. He waited long enough that he heard his parents brushing their teeth and getting ready for bed. He waited long enough that the whole house fell silent around him. But the inside of Pickles' head wasn't silent. 

His parents had been asleep a long time when he finally got up and tiptoed down to the kitchen. There were leftovers from dinner in the fridge, and he climbed up on a chair to stick them in the microwave. He sat on the counter waiting for his food to heat up, but when he laid eyes on the light affixed to the ceiling fan, he couldn't help but get angry again thinking about that stupid lamp. And the longer he looked at it, the angrier he got. Pickles grabbed a knife laying on the counter next to him and hurled it at the light.

He was surprised when it actually connected and the light shattered everywhere. It made a mess, and now it was dark, but he didn't care anymore. A fire had been sparked in him. They wanted to blame him for breaking some stupid lamp? Then he would break some stupid lamps. 

Pickles went over to the dining room, climbed up on the dinner table, and unscrewed the lights from their sockets in the ceiling fixture, and one by one, he threw them against the wall, smashing them. The sound was sweet to his ears. 

Food completely forgotten, he went to the living room. There were two more lamps that weren't broken in here, and he would change that. He tipped over the entire end table to let one crash to the floor, but it wasn't quite broken enough since it hit carpet, so Pickles kicked it in with his foot until it hit the wall. It hurt, but he didn't care! He would break it more if he had to!

He was moving onto the next lamp when he heard footsteps creaking down the staircase. Pickles froze, but then he curled his hands into fists, ready to fight. Yeah, he'd confess to his mom that he broke these stupid lamps, because he did! But he wouldn't confess to breaking the other one. He didn't do it!

But it wasn't his mom coming down the stairs, he realised as his belly turned to liquid ice. It was his father, wearing nothing but his sleeping pants and slippers. 

"What the hell do you think you're doing, brat?" his father snarled at him, voice groggy with sleep, but not enough so to hide his rage. 

Pickles suddenly had no response. Every bone in his body had been prepared to fight with his mother, but he had no idea how to deal with his father. His father always ignored him, entirely. Refused to deal with him at all.

But now, his father grabbed onto his arm, wrenching him close, and his other hand connected with the side of Pickles' face. That wasn't what he was expecting at all, and it stung, and it rendered him even further speechless, his mind quiet, but his father was looking him right in the eye, and Pickles met his eye contact, unbroken.

It was only then that Pickles realised that his father had never looked at him for so long before.


End file.
